Against The Sky
by NinjaMoogle
Summary: Axis Powers Hetalia/Temeraire crossover. ""What are you?" Kirkland's gaze bored into his own, and Laurence felt the world drop away from under his feet."
1. Marching Tune

**Title**: Against the Sky (1/?)**  
Genre**: Action, angst, crossover (possibly romance in later chapters)**  
Word Count**: 1,702**  
Rating/Warnings**: PG-13 for violence and death**  
Summary**: Axis Powers Hetalia/Temeraire crossover. "It's not his first battle against Britain's Aerial Corps, but this one manages to be different in ways he could never expect."**  
Notes**: For those who don't know Temeraire, here's a link: .org/wiki/Temeraire_%28series%29. Oh! And while all of the British dragons mentioned (Regal Copper, Longwing, Anglewing, Greyling) are from the series, I've made up all of the American breeds (Appalachian Diamondback, Liberty Blue, Scarlet Crown).

.

.oOo.

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He's exactly the colour he doesn't want to be – a vibrant sunset red. He looks like he always imagined Arthur would, in this form of his other people. Well, almost. He obviously hasn't reached his full length yet; his scales itch somewhat as the muscles underneath shift, like a shirt just a little too large. He figured that when he stops growing, he'll be the size of an Appalachian Diamondback, a respectable middle-sized heavyweight. For now though, he's just glad that the awkwardness of adjusting to his long wings is over and that he can fly without fumbling through every other air current.

Even so, did it have to be _red_? The first time he had shown his General his dragon form, he had grumbled under his breath about his coloration, quite forgetting that even a mumble was ridiculously audible. Washington had laughed, patting his foreleg comfortingly and saying that it wouldn't be right to get worked up over something so trivial – and would it not be an insult to all of the Scarlet Crowns in the army's ranks? America conceded this point, though he never had quite gotten over being almost the exact colour of a redcoat. Even now, on the eve of battle, the uneasiness remained in his mind, a faint background static like the patter of a soft rainfall.

'_All I have to do is look for the one that will look like me_,' America told himself as the ground crew secured his harness. '_Unless he'll be human, commanding his troops on the ground? But Arth… England's got generals for that, field commanders that can do almost as well as he. His presence in the air would be much more useful – he'll be there, I'm certain._' The ground crew chief motioned to him, he cut his musings short to rear back on his haunches and flare his wings, shaking himself to be sure that the harness was properly secured.

"All is well," he called as he dropped back to the flagstones. Everything in order, he crouched to let the crew up; topmen, bellmen, riflemen, and lieutenants scrambled aboard, carabineers snapping. He craned his head around to look at his captain, his General, as the man settled into place, immaculate coat of blue stark against his (_red red red_) scales. They would hang back from the main army because of this, as no one wanted to risk him too much – he was too needed, too essential to the American forces. Washington himself had declared he'd rather be in the midst of the rest of the Air Force, but there was too much grumbling from the tacticians about unnecessary risk.

Washington signalled and he sprang from the ground, mighty wings beating as he rose to join with their formation, sliding into the centre place with practiced ease. They circled as other formations grouped around them, dragons of every breed and colour that had rebelled along with their human countrymen against England's oppression. Pride swelled within America as he looked at them, his peoples, strong and proud against the morning sun.

'_We can do this._'

.

.oOo.

.

His resolve burned brightly, a fierce light in his eyes as the formation winged forward, the British ranks almost in sight. He kept to the centre of the inverted W-shape, the points in front held by a Scarlet Crown and an Appalachian Diamondback, both heavyweights, there to punch through the lines of the Aerial Corps. Two midweight Liberty Blues held position to the outside of the larger dragons and the trailing points were both taken by Greylings, British-bred but American-born. America felt a kinship for such as these, dragon or human, for he could sympathize with the pain of having to, _needing_ to rebel against England, no matter their personal reason.

The vague lines of colour against the blue sky sharpened as they closed the distance, nearly close enough to make out individuals. The few clouds present in the sky were not enough to obscure one's vision, especially for the sharp-eyed dragons. America could make out the flag-dragon clearly, the red, white, and blue (_can I even call them my colours when they are his as well?_) of the Union Jack snapping proud and straight on the back of a Longwing. '_Red, red, where is Arthur?_' he thought, scanning the lines as they draw ever closer. '_The only red here is little, just accents here and there. Is he on the ground? He wouldn't be, he _can't _be…I need to face him here…_'

A thundering roar blasted him from his thoughts and America dove to the side, startled, breaking formation like the rest around him as a trio of massive shapes barrelled through the air where he had just been flying. '_From above and behind? Impossible! When did they get behind our lines?!_' He tumbled aside as one of the British dragons - '_Anglewing_', his mind supplied – made a dizzyingly sharp twist and turned momentum into height, sweeping upwards to engage him.

He heard Washington on his back, his captain-General calling commands, and he slipped down and to the right as the Anglewing rose, his riflemen unleashing a full volley at the other dragon's crew. Bullets flew, battered from their courses by the wind, but the men chosen for this job were the best marksmen in the army and knew how to judge their shots. Even so, it was not just skill but also luck that took out the Anglewing's captain, a spray of blood indicating the man's death even before his limp body slumped bonelessly to his dragon's shoulders.

The Anglewing obviously felt something, as it turned its head only to release a keening cry of utter despair at the sight of its dead captain. Furiously, _recklessly_, it threw itself at America, heedless of the rest of the crew on its back. Unable to dodge again so quickly, its – _her_, now that he got a better look – talons dug into America's side, piercing scales and flesh. America roared in pain, but saw a chance – in her rage she had left her head too high. He took advantage of the lethal oversight, darting his head forward and sinking his teeth into her neck, tearing her throat open as hot blood splashed onto his tongue, hit the back of his mouth.

As he relaxed his jaws, her broken form fell away, her claws ripping from his side, wounding even in death as she tumbled lifelessly towards the ground below, much too far for any of her remaining crew to survive. But she was not the only one. Dashed upon the earthen plain were the corpses of the Scarlet Crown that had flown at America's left wing and one of the little Greylings, the dead bodies of crewmen strewn about them.

'_No!_' America let out a strangled howl for the deaths of his wingmates, his countrymen, his _children_. '_There were only three, and I took one,_' he cursed as Washington signalled to try to regroup with what was left of his formation. '_How could they fall to only two? Another Anglewing and a..._' All thought slammed to a sudden halt as pure terror froze his breath in his lungs and made his wings stutter for a beat as he caught sight of the other two ambushers. The second Anglewing was bleeding but alive, but the other...

'_God and the Devil. It's Black Death._'

He had heard of the dragon before, but no one ever had firsthand accounts of the beast. Anyone that ever got close enough to see it properly never came back. Some declared that it was a myth, mere legend, because it was only ever glimpsed, and then gone. _Black Death_ – so named because it left naught but destruction and ash in its wake. Up close it was frightening – majestic and terrifying. The size of one of the immense Regal Coppers, glossy scales blacker than a raven's feathers covered its entirety, save for its silver-grey belly scales and splashes of the same colour on the tips of its paws. A crown of spines swept from the base of its head over the top of its neck, flaring as the dragon gave another cacophonous roar and rent the belly of one of the Libertys open with both foreclaws, the American dragon's shattered body tossed ruthlessly away as it descended upon the other. With the formation broken and the Diamondback and Greyling still locked in battle with the surviving Anglewing, America too far and too low to help, it was easy prey as the heavyweight bore down upon it. The riflemen and topmen fired at the descending shadow to no avail, and the Liberty Blue fell, wings shredded and back broken, crew clinging desperately to their dying dragon in the vague hopes that its bulk would shield them from some of the impact.

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, one of his ensigns flagging the remaining two dragons of the formation, their Anglewing adversary having finally fallen. _Retreat and regroup_ went the code, and America could not find it in himself to complain. As the Greyling and Diamondback turned to fly back to the bulk of the Air Force, America kept his eye on Black Death, who had circled lower but made no outright attack. America tensed as it sailed ever closer, waiting for Washington's command, trying to figure out how he would manage his escape.

One thought, small but persistent, niggled at the back of his mind. '_No harness._' The thought became a theory, and dread filled the young colony-Nation as he began to suspect. '_No harness. No crew. No captain. The British are not the Indians, they'd _never_ allow an unharnessed feral to fly in their Corps._' And, as they drew level, the dread and terror solidified in his gut as the other circled in. '_No... no, it cannot be..._'

But the dark dragon banked overhead, turning away to wing back to its own lines, ambush accomplished with nearly half a formation of brave Americans lying dead and cooling in the autumn sun. America took the chance and sped away, back to the main body of his own forces, but all he could think of was '_Green eyes. England's eyes._'

_Arthur._

.

_.  
_

...tbc.


	2. The World Turn'd Upside Down

Reviews make this thing go – a thanks to those over on , especially one Achino-Alien, for without you this would not have been continued. I am absolutely swamped by work IRL, so don't expect anything too soon, but if there's a positive response to this chapter then there will be another – War of 1812 featuring mainly America and Canada with a side of England, and what I believe some may have been waiting for: inclusion of canon Temeraire characters. That's right, Napoleonic Wars with Temeraire and Laurence in the next chapter, if it gets written.

The romance for this story has been somewhat solidified – there will be some England/America in later chapters, though how far it will go I haven't quite decided yet. Other pairings are up in the air as I generally don't have much preference, so we'll see how it goes.

So, here you are: The Siege of Yorktown.

* * *

.

The Americans were strong, their tactics sound. The aid given by the French was invaluable.

And the British reinforcements never came.

.

.oOo.

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Yorktown. This was _it_; he could feel it. This battle would make or break him, and he fully intended to win. Perhaps it was draconic nature that bled through even when wearing his human form, or maybe just the natural impatience that England had always scolded him for, but he chafed horribly at the restraint of orders that kept him in place rather then joining the battle outright, especially when France returned from his troops' raid on the Fusilier's redoubt, wincing in pain from a graze on his shoulder that had ripped his uniform as well as his flesh and stained his undershirt red.

He had always accompanied his General on Washington's visits to the front line, eager to see his own troops, eager to join them. He was there on watch, that cloudy night, as they built the first parallel, lightweights and young dragons helping the men dig and carrying the long logs of pine as well as buckets of dirt to help clear the trench. It took three days to place the guns, even with the larger dragons carrying them in - the superiority of the British pepper-guns was telling, and they lost not a few to concentrated cannon-fire.

Alfred was with the Generals Washington and Rochambeau for the initial bombardment. Washington fired the first gun from the parallel and Alfred's teeth bared in vicious glee as the other guns followed suit, smashing through the British lines. He could hear the screams of agony floating up from below. He shivered with anticipation as the cannons spat their heavy iron from both sides, the thunder and roll of their fire pulsing in his very blood. _Well, England? Are you hurting now? Ready to admit that I am as much a Nation as you?_

A hand clapped down on his shoulder companionably. America turned to see France standing there, his handsome face alight with the euphoria of battle. "We have begun to turn the tide at the river; we are successfully firing on _l'Angleterre's_ ships and have already neutralized the _Guadeloupe_. I see you are doing well, here."

Alfred kept his eyes on the battlefield, watching the retreating front lines of red. He wondered worriedly if his twin brother was down there, where or even if England would use Canada in this fight. That took his mind to England, and the part of him not caught up in Revolution cried out in fear for Arthur, praying for his safety, hoping for his forgiveness even after Alfred had betrayed him so. _Do you still love me?_

That little voice was squashed ruthlessly.

Turning to the men manning the cannons, he began barking out orders: "Aim higher! Keep forcing their retreat!" "To the left, try to take out those gun emplacements!"

Back, back, back they drove the lines. The American and French artillery fired through the night, trying their damnedest to especially hit the pepper-guns, the quality and proliferation of which kept the American dragons from getting into the air.

.

.oOo.

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Two nights later, the smallest dragons in the army were sent forward with a group of trench-diggers to make and fortify a second parallel. Secretly, quietly, they worked, and the next morning troops were being positioned to the new, closer line. The larger dragons kept to the back, drawing fire through their sheer visibility as the parallel kept extending, extending, until the next two redoubts were in range. When the plans of who would storm which were announced - the Americans to redoubt number nine, the French ten - Prussia clicked his tongue against his teeth and laughed. "I'm following the Frenchmen on this one, boy. Ludwig's got troops over there and I want to see how well he's done so far. Well," he mused, "that and to stick one in Britain's face. Maybe he'll be there too. Th' man's always good for a nice, bloody tussle."

The troops returned victorious, but Prussia was pouting. "No sign of that brother of mine, and they surrendered. Surrendered! Where's the fun in that?" America just stared at him, uncomprehending, then shook his head and made his way over to his tent, anticipating a decent night's sleep after the attacks on the redoubts. He had helped with the hacking of the abatis, his inhuman strength driving an axe through the wooden fortifications faster than any of the men around him, but he was aching by the time the battle was over. Climbing into his bedroll, he let himself fall into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

.

.oOo.

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America bolted awake, with no idea why. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes sleepily - _is it morning already_? Yawning, the Colony rose and fumbled sleepily at his tent flap, intending to go outside to relieve himself. The camp was silent, but not too much with the soft sounds of snoring and shifting cloth permeating the still air, and Alfred stumbled off to an inviting bush near the perimeter. Having emptied his bladder near some poor, unsuspecting clover, he buttoned his drop-flap and turned to head back to his tent when something caught his eye - a flash of lighter shadow amidst the darkness over in the direction of the cannons. Two steps toward the cannon-emplacements to check on the oddity, an alarm rang out and he bolted to his tent for his musket and sprinted back out at full speed towards the source of the alarm.

The site was in chaos. His own troops were in open melee with a squad of redcoats that had somehow managed to sneak into camp. Few bullets flew as no-one wanted to risk firing upon their fellows, but the three courier-dragons that had come with the lobsters, all of them coated in charcoal powder to provide camouflage in the dark of night, were already detained - though by no means subdued - by American dragons. America's concern turned to rage when he saw that England's soldiers had partially succeeded in what they had come to do. Six of the big cannons lay spiked, an iron wedge driven through the touch hole rendering them effectively useless. Alfred hurriedly secured the bayonet to the end of his musket, ready to jump into the fray, and sprung.

_THWACK._

Pain.

He barely had time to register the feel of polished wood and worked brass crushing his nose before his back hit the ground, his body flung aside from the unexpected force of a musket stock broadsiding his face.

When the red cleared from the back of his eyelids, as the rather disgusting feel of his nose knitting itself back together faded, Alfred groaned and opened his eyes. The sight that greeted him was the last he had ever expected to see.

"Hello, America."

"M-_Matthew?_"

Canada stood above him, bedecked in a scarlet uniform with an officer's sash, his legs seeming to disappear into the darkness because of his black gaiters. Silver flashed in the moonlight both from the polished, embossed buttons and the metal on the Brown Bess as his northern brother - _my own land-twin!_ - stepped forward to plant one boot firmly on America's chest. The rifle swung down in a leisurely arc, the point of the bayonet coming to rest on his throat, just above the leather stock that could have afforded him some modicum of protection.

"You and I both know that if I shoot you, or even stab you, it would make no difference. You would die, slowly, and then you would get up. Up to fight again." Canada held the rifle firmly, one-handed, with no sign of wavering, but America could hear the rasp in his voice, the emotion that slowly seeped through the barrier of _I-am-a-soldier, I-am-your-enemy_. "Alfred... _why_?"

America's eyes narrowed. "You know very well why I... _hrgk!_" He coughed up blood as the bayonet sunk an inch into his throat, effectively silencing him. The Nation's natural accelerated healing tried to close up the wound, to mend pierced skin and flesh, but the blunt iron remained in the way

"_Don't give me that, Alfred!_ I know why, politically, even culturally, you did it. I'm asking you how _you_ could do this to _Arthur_." The bayonet sunk in a little further. "He took you in, gave you culture, expanded your lands, protected you from all that would have harmed you. You're his little brother! _He loves you!_ And look - look what you have done. How this rebellion of yours has pit your own citizens against their families, brother against brother. Even you and I." There were tears in Matthew's eyes - even through his pain, he could see the moonlight now glinting off of them as well.

"You know, your people are still his too? Even now, they're still British, _just like you_. You feel every one of your citizens that dies? He feels _everyone_. Not the Hessians or France's men, but yours, mine, they're his too!" Canada stepped back off of America's chest, the cold metal sliding from his throat accompanied by a spurting gush of blood that stemmed its tide as the hole sealed itself. America rolled onto his side, coughing madly and spitting out the blood that had dripped into his lungs. Black shoes and then a pale face appeared in his vision as his brother knelt down beside him.

"You'll never come back. I am sorry not only for Arthur, but for you too, because you don't seem to realize what your dream is going to cost you. Goodbye, Alfred."

Alfred's hand shot out - _grab him, grab him, stop him NOW_ - as Canada stepped back, but he was still recovering, _too weak_ - there was a blurring of edges, a sudden double-image as the young man's form was superimposed with something much, much larger. When the blur solidified, standing in Matthew's place was a dragon - a scarlet heavyweight with a sleek muzzle and wings that darkened to russets and purples at the edges, the mirror of his twin.

Canada let loose a roar that shook the leaves from nearby foliage and swept down to the area where the French and Americans clashed with the British. He barreled through, bowling over two dark-coloured midweights that had one of the couriers pinned and continued on, smashing into the cannon line and sending one tumbling down the hill, its massive barrel shearing from the wooden frame, wheels breaking and splintering.

The freed courier squirmed free of its surprised, newly-injured captors and launched itself immediately to its captain's defense, biting a French infantryman clean in half as the man in the bloodstained bottle-green coat stumbled hurriedly to his dragon's side, hauling himself up the harness. Captain secured, the two leaped over the soldiers' heads to flank Canada, and together they rushed a trio that guarded the other two captured British dragons. The prisoners were fighting madly, one for its own life and the other driven berserk at the sight of its captain lying on the field, his chest riddled with musket-shot.

The dragon with Canada gave a short, powerful spring of its legs and landed squarely on the back of the largest, a heavyweight, pale ivory and light green streaks over dark blue-green scales  
identifying it as as a Verdant. New screams pierced the sounds of fighting as the Britons, ignoring the Verdant's heavily armored neck, laid out savagely; the captain wrought havoc on the crew from his high vantage point with pistol and rifle whilst his dragon mauled the heavyweight's left wing with claws and teeth, shredding the delicate membrane and worrying the shoulder joint like a dog with a soup bone, all the while clinging madly and trying not to get thrown off by the thrashing of the Verdant and staying back from its huge, snapping jaws.

Canada himself went for the other two - an American-bred Yellow Reaper and a Short-winged Copperhead. He took on the Copperhead first, wary of its venomous bite. He landed right between them as they split to catch him on either side, the Reaper's crew releasing a musket volley, some of which found cracks in the heavyweight's scales, dark blood streaking his neck and side. The Copperhead snaked forward, fangs bared and gleaming with a faint sheen of venom, darting under and up, straight for Canada's throat.

The red dragon surged back on his haunches, balancing with his tail, and the Copperhead missed. It flailed forward, off-balance, and the colony-dragon struck - all of his weight set behind his forepaws as he dropped straight down onto the lightweight's back. A horrendous snapping noise cracked over the field, mingling with cries human and dragon alike. The Reaper, horrified, drew back from Canada in fear as its crew reloaded, the unconcious realization beginning to set in that they were fighting something not quite _mortal_.

A brassy call split the air; the two surviving British couriers looped overhead as one of their captains sounded the retreat to what was left of the original three-hundred fifty troops. The Verdant lay bleeding nearby, grounded by its ravaged wing, the Yellow Reaper keeping a wary distance from the northern Nation. Canada swung his massive head around to stare directly at America even as he spread his sunset wings, the southern twin staggering to his feet from where Matthew had knocked him to the ground, still coughing blood. Canada's voice was deeper as a dragon, sleet and storm and the True North, thundering as he roared at Alfred:

"_Enjoy your independence, Brother!_"

.

.oOo.

.

Dawn broke.

The firing had intensified from the Americans' side - the attack the night before let them know how desperate the British were getting. Cornwallis was backed into a corner, and everyone knew it.

"They will evacuate across the river," France mused, pushing around one of the little wooden blocks that represented a ship on their battlefield map. "There is no more will to win in them - they must flee or perish."

Alfred shot him a glance before returning to his contemplation of the troop markers scattered across the field of little coloured lines. He had not spoken of last night to France, or to his General even. He had always though that Eng... Arth... _that one_... was forcing his brother to fight him against his will, that Matthew would never turn against him. The revelation otherwise was... _no, I will not think of it!_

"We will send up our formations then. We can stop them as they cross the river."

Francis hummed, thumb stroking his lower lip. "You _do_ remember that I will have ships in the river by today at least, more than enough to take on what _l'Angleterre_ has stationed here? They still have pepper-guns, and enough dragons to give your own more than a fair fight. Keep your dragons down; let me handle this."

Alfred hissed through his teeth, the barest hint of a reddish tinge crawling across his skin. "If need be, _I_ can go up there, fly with my squadrons. With no crew to worry about, I could..."

"You will do _what_, dear _chère_ _Amérique_? What difference would you alone make? You will fly against the Corps, you will challenge the Nettles and Reapers and Coppers, and even before you have had your fill of the fight, Black Death will come and strike you down. You will have _no chance_." France gave him a pitying once-over, and snapped an interruption as America opened his mouth to retaliate. "How long have you existed, boy? A century and a half? England is _thirty-two times your age_. And you think you have the experience to hold your own against him, Nation to Nation?" An elegant snort of disbelief. "A word of advice: stick to the ground."

America bit down a snarl. "We will see."

.

.oOo.

.

As it was, only a grand total of twenty-five American dragons went into the air the next day - a formidable force, were half of them not lightweights. The commander of the Air Forces wanted smaller targets. "The less we give them to shoot at, the better," in his own words, when Alfred asked, "and we certainly don't need the Nation personification itself gettin' blasted by the bastards when we're this close to winning, so _don't_ get any ideas abou' going up there yourself!"

And so America was restrained to the earth once again. It wasn't that he minded being with his ground troops, not at all, but he wanted to be one of the ones chasing England off, not just another bright-eyed boy in a Continental uniform amongst the army and militia. He wanted Britain to _see _him, to know just who was beating him into retreat. _See how powerful I am now, see how much I have grown, what I have become!_ But such was not to be, so he was here, directing battle on the ground, as his five formations of French and American dragons harried the retreating ships as the naval force France had promised swept in, unleashing iron-laden broadsides. The British had at most fifteen dragons in the air, and they were divided, split to protect the ships transporting the troops across the river.

It was chance that let Alfred catch sight of him. He had turned his attention from the lines pushing forward in front of him for merely a moment to glance towards the bay where the French navy was attempting to corral the British ships into a less defensive position and seen the telltale black shadow sweeping low. He watched, entranced for a moment by the sheer flying skill displayed as England tucked and turned to avoid cannonfire, wingtips just over the top of the wave crests, a feat of aerial acrobatics that a dragon of his size should never have been able to accomplish. The moment of awe was broken, however, when he reached his goal, slamming into the side of a frigate. Wood groaned and shattered as his hindclaws pierced the hull, foreclaws splintering the deck and railing as his head snapped forward to grab the main pepper-gun, wrenching it free of its ropes and flinging it off into the murky waters. By that time the crew, recovering from their shock at the assault, had rallied and rushed forward with swords and heavy rifles.

Black Death heaved himself onto the listing deck as a pair of Yellow Reapers dove, hotly pursued by a Petit Chevalier and Liberty Blue, splitting to either side of the ship to allow their riflemen to strafe the deck, buying enough time and French deaths to allow England to land a few savaging blows to their mainmast, launching himself from the ship as it toppled in a great billow of ivory sailcloth. Unable to catch up with the Reapers and their pursuers, he rose, heading for a five-dragon formation a few thousand feet above him that were engaged in battle with one of the few American formations in the air.

Alfred grit his teeth as his eyes followed the huge black form up, up, up. _I will win this yet_.

.

.oOo.

.

That night, Alfred felt a pulling, a tug at his core, his very being, and knew that it was hi... Eng... _Arthur_. It was Arthur calling him. Almost as if in a daze, he rose from his tent, walking outside into the cold, drizzling rain. He passed the border guards and they did not stop him. Why would they? He was America, their Nation, and as such was free to do whatever he pleased. Deeper and deeper he walked into the woods, following the draw of the Colony-Nation bond that lead him inexorably closer to Arthur. It was not too long before he came upon a fair-sized clearing, and there waiting for him, hands clasped behind his turned back, dressed in scarlet, black, and white, musket conspicuous in its absence, was the source of all his woes.

_England_.

The words that Arthur spoke were clipped, proper, and completely lacking in emotion. "I am here to give you one last chance to return. This is your last warning, and the last offer I shall give." The toneless voice was belied by the slight twitch of his fingertips. "Will you come back t... with me?"

Alfred could feel his lip curling. "I don't believe this. You _did_ read the declaration I sent, didn't you? And all these years of fighting... you should know my answer by now."

"And so I do, but one always has the right to hope, does one not?"

"One of the reasons I rebelled was because you were leeching that right away, that others, which I have stated to you before. You have a full list of my grievances, and yet you _still ask if I would forgive you?_"

Even though he was drenched by now, Arthur's hair still held a bit of a gleam in the moonlight as he turned to face America. "I never asked for your forgiveness."

"Good, because you're not getting it." And Alfred launched himself forward, putting all of his strength - derived from the horrendous, awesome power of the rhyolitic volcano hidden in his unexplored Western regions - behind his fist as it smashed into Arthur's face. The Empire, unprepared, was flung backwards through the air, skidding through mud and forest debris when he landed. Alfred stood still for a second, arm still outstretched, chest heaving from the physical and mental exertion, before shuddering, seeming to withdraw upon himself, and walking over through the shallow trench freshly gouged into the ground to where England lay. He winced as he watched the man's jaw repair itself from where it had snapped in two, bloodstained white bone retreating with a meaty _shluck_ back into the flesh through which it had pierced. England heaved himself up onto one knee and spat blood. Wary, beryl eyes met America's, but with a dull gleam that seemed entirely unlike the Britain he remembered.

"You used to be... so _big_." he said, the words tripping hesitantly from his mouth. And it was true. He had only been as tall as Arthur's knee when they first met, and now that he was essentially done growing, his two inches over his (former) guardian seemed like so much more. And seeing Arthur now, on his knees in the mud... it was as if he was looking down at him from a pedestal - one so high brought down so low.

But this is what he had fought for, and though that tiny, nagging part of him - probably the few remaining Loyalists, he refused to think otherwise - wanted to rush over to Arthur, mud splattering as his knees hit the soggy ground, and gather his beloved brother into his arms, shushing away the tears that had begun to flow freely down his pale face - _had they been there since...?_ - most of him was exultant. _Freedom. Liberty. Independence._ It was all his now, his Dream realized - he was his own Nation, no longer the British Colonies of America, and he was suffused by a fierce joy in his new state of being. The final paperwork and official agreements were inconsequential compared to this, the moment of liberation as he felt his ties to his Empire severing.

_Look at me - I am a Nation. _

_Look at me - I am your equal._

_Look at me - I brought a _Power_ to its knees._

_Look at me - I am _not yours anymore.

The United States of America turned his back on the drenched, muddy Briton in officer-scarlet as he felt the last threads of the Colony-Nation bond between them shrivel and snap. He started walking away, back to Francis, back to his men, back to his General, into his new future. A grin plastered itself across his face as he broke into a jog, eager to return to his people, to celebrate this - his independence.

It seemed far too easy to ignore the muffled screams of pain resonating from the broken figure he left behind.

.

.oOo.

.

The next day Cornwallis surrendered. The day after that, the Articles of Capitulation were signed. Alfred remembered clearly how the enemy soldiers, all of the Britons and Hessians, were marched between the massed American and French lines. Their proud facade had slipped, showing them as mere men, tired and bedraggled. It was with a note of melancholy that the British fifes and drums took up the tune, "The World Turn'd Upside Down". However, all of the pomp and circumstance of the surrender fell to the back of Alfred's mind when compared with the treaty-signing, the day nearly two years later when the Treaty of Paris confirmed his Nationhood.

France and England were there, as was their right as Nations intrinsic to the treaty, though their own signatures for ratification would not be needed for some time.

It was the first time America had seen England since he turned his back on him in that secluded clearing. Alfred's attention had been kept mostly by the treaty itself - after all, it was _him_ that the treaty affected most, and he was still very, very new to the whole business of politicking and the mess of responsibilities that came with it. He stuck around his own people, mostly, and occasionally France's, but there was eventually a time wherein the Nations were shuttled from the room - if any of them had an adverse side affect to the signing, it was universally accepted that it was not any mere mortals' business, and so they shooed the Nations out into a separate waiting room. It did mean, however, that Alfred finally had to face the one being that he had been avoiding like the plague.

England.

America arrived first, content to take in the grand furnishings and lush drapery, soothed by the simple earthy tones of the wood and walls. He spun when the heavy doors opened, hoping for France, _hoping oh so much, don't make me face him here alone_, but such was not to be. England raised a bushy eyebrow, looking over his former colony as he strode into the room, and America could not help but feel inadequate as he watched Britain and the regal surety that suffused his very motion, the reds and golds of his formal coat vibrant in a room that seemed suddenly dull. War was one thing, but in this field he was a newcomer, as wet behind the ears as one could get. He opened his mouth to say something, _anything,_ but was pulled up short with a look.

Alfred couldn't help but flinch when Arthur's gaze met his - this was not his brother anymore. The loving figure that had raised him was nowhere to be seen in the cool, unaffected visage of the British Empire, who wore an expression of arrogant superiority like he had been born with it, like he had not just finished on the losing side of a rebellion.

"What a pity, _l' Angleterre_," France's cultured tones rang out from behind him, and America turned to see the other European Nation striding through the doors, exquisite in a tailored coat of sky blue, gold, and white, America's angel of aid in throwing off the oppressor's yoke. But now, he was completely ignored as France swept past him. England too paid no heed to him anymore, his attention focused on his age-old enemy as Francis sauntered to a halt just outside of striking range. There was no kindness in the smiles they offered one another; though congenial enough on the surface, the look shared between them was one that promised destruction - fire ravaging all it touched and hot iron whistling through the air, the wrenching agony of a sword through the lung, talons plunging through belly scales to spill slippery pink-white-purple entrails. America was frozen on the spot - even at the height of their antagonism towards each other, he had _never_ seen Arthur look like that.

"What a pity," France continued, the sensuous tilt of his lips suggesting the razor edge of a scimitar, "that the spirit of your populace lagged so much. It would have been much more interesting were your full power actually in the fight, _non_?"

England's answering laugh was rich and full, a low baritone chuckle that rattled America's bones, and in it he could hear the threatening rumble of Black Death's terrifying roar.

_Wait. WHAT..._

"Well, I can't help if my Crown and people lose interest, now can I? Though I would have quite enjoyed it if I had been able to beat you at your little game." Viridian eyes suddenly narrowed, pupils becoming predatory slits of black. "Though do not presume to believe that it will be the same back in Europe, or my other colonies."

America watched the exchange with mounting horror. _Lost interest? Strength not in the fight? And he's acting like he lost to _France_, not _me_...!_

"So what was this to you then, my revolution?" Alfred almost didn't recognise the low, stunned voice as his own, growing thicker and louder with surprise and disgust as he spoke, near to cracking - _still so young, why, why_ - and he knew that every emotion he felt was showing plainly on his face. "Was this all just... just a _game_ to you? And I a pawn in the greedy power struggles between you two? You and Spain, the Netherlands, Portugal? Is that all we are over here? Me, Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean and South American Colonies, all just backworld hicks that never even _mattered?_"

England and France's attention was trained on him now, blinking in surprise at his outburst. America's eyes itched with unshed tears; he knew what he must look like now, a petulant child throwing a fit upon uncovering a parent's lie, _a mere hundred-fifty-year old Colony unable to comprehend the machinations of Nations thousands of years its senior_. He tried his hardest, but was unable to keep a few tears from dripping down his cheeks. When he spoke again, it was a barely audible whisper, tired and broken.

"You never... I was just another chunk of land to settle, one to mould to your ideals before any others got their hands on me, made New England only so I wouldn't become New France or New Sweden or New Netherlands, wasn't I? After all this, even... even still caring for you as we fought... I was..." His voice hitched, eyes closed, _I cannot look at you any more, either of you_. "You never loved me, did you?"

Suddenly he was encased in red. Wool scratched his cheek as gentle arms cradled him to a warm chest, the steady thumping of an ancient heartbeat in his ears, familiar as the sunrise that always came from England's direction. Long, strong fingers laced through his hair - a touch meant to comfort and support, and he leaned into it unconsciously.

"Never doubt that I loved you Alfred. _Never_."

And as quickly as that secure, loving embrace came, it was whisked away, America stumbling forward from the loss, landing painfully on his knees and gazing up in shock at England, who had half-turned away.

"I only regret that the brother I loved with all my heart is now dead."

It was a reversal of their parting at Yorktown. England turned and left, disappearing through the heavy oaken doors without so much as a glance over his shoulder, France staring after him amusedly. America watched the red coat slip out of sight, overcome with a turmoil of emotions that threatened to break his heart.

.

.

* * *

-If one takes England's 'birthdate' as sometime around 4000 BC, then at that time, with America at about 150 years old, England would be approximately 32 times older than America.


	3. The Gravity of Choice

As people were raising concerns over the length of the pre-fic Author's Note (more of a preface, really, as it was a Word-doc page long), I'm cutting it out and summarizing. I hope this makes things easier.

Oz's got a bit more of a temper than I'd generally write him with – penal colony in this time period, whut. This hasn't been Britpicked, so I apologise for any Americanisms, blatant or otherwise. The whole thing is set during the last battle in _Victory of Eagles_, for all you Temeraire people – Hetalians, basically just know that France/Napoléon has invaded England and the Brits are in the process of kicking them back to the continent. Also for Hetalians, Laurence – one of the two main characters of the series and a generally upstanding British Captain – is very woe-is-me right now 'cause he saved all the dragons of the continent, but in a way that made him a traitor to his country. And then he nobly went back to face the music, which means that he's going to be executed when he's outlived his usefulness.

Theme music for the chapter is as follows. Battle: "The Gravity of Choice" from the _Pillars of the Earth_ OST. Laurence and Arthur's 'conversation': "Freedom Fighters" by Two Steps From Hell. Many thanks to **Red Hot Holly Berries** and **saxon_jesus**, who betaed. Much love, guys.

* * *

_**Chapter Three – The Gravity of Choice**_

.o.O.o.

"_There was little enough Laurence could now do, to repair what he had done; he could not restore the lives of the slain, or raise up ships from the Channel floor that had been sunk, or make recompense to all the ordinary countrymen whose livelihood and possessions had been raided away by an invading army. He could not repair his father's health, or the King's, or Edith's happiness. But he had already stained himself irrevocably with dishonour, for the sake of an enemy nation and a tyrant's greed; he could stain himself a little more for the sake of his own, and shield with his own ruined reputation those who yet had one to protect._" – _Victory of Eagles_, Naomi Novik

.o.O.o.

The great black bared its teeth and dove down, claws spread wide. The French dragon banked and soared upwards with powerful wingbeats, royal blue scales gleaming in the sun. The two crashed in midair, snarling and slashing, dropping through the clouds. Entwined, they twirled out of control, heedless of any other danger as they rent deep gouges in one another, scales cracking and blood flying. Temeraire could still hear the fading roars of pain and vicious anger as his concentration was abruptly pulled back to his own surroundings, and banked to the side, mirroring Requiescat as Gentius spat his corrosive acid at the oncoming French dragons.

He roared, a roar devoid of the destructive power of the Divine Wind, as he crashed into the left end of the enemy formation, Requiescat on the right, both using size and weight to barrel through. Temeraire's crew was ready, a steel volley launching from rifles and pistols alike as they shot past the other dragons. Temeraire and the Royal Copper nearly brushed wingtips as they crossed and then Gentius, Ballista, and several Reapers and ferals came from the front in much the same manner, using the commotion caused by the heavyweights' break-though to single out opponents and engage them, the ferals banding together to go after a Roi-de-Vitesse.

As the two largest dragons looped around for a second pass, the two that had been the black giant's wingmates joined the fray, stooping like sea-eagles from above. Temeraire caught but a glimpse of them before they disappeared into the melee, and then Laurence was calling him. Swinging his head around, he returned his full attention to the battle, snapping at a Papillion Noir that had drifted within range. The other dragon's crew let off a few frantic shots and the dragon dove, hoping to escape the Celestial's range for a few precious seconds; they did, but diving straight after them through the regrouping of the British formation was a young middleweight, hardly old enough to be in the battle, and it was unharnessed. _A feral?_

Wings folded, it dropped like a stone, swooping underneath the fleeing Frenchdrake and raising its complement of considerable spines, snarling. The Papillion lunged, snapping its jaws forward, and caught a faceful of spines. The young dragon howled as teeth rent its flesh, but it struck upward with the spikes on its tail. The Papillion Noir pulled back, hissing, to avoid the spines and to allow its crew a few potshots, but its wings were slowing, missing beats. The dragon's body shuddered and its wings half-folded, going limp, and it dropped from the sky. The little spined one roared its triumph and beat towards the rest of the battle as well as its companion, who had inserted itself much more smoothly into the battle by being an extra wing in a formation that had lost a heavyweight to a cannonball. Temeraire shook his attention from them and back to the battle, making sure that Cantarella and Chalcedony were keeping the other Yellow Reapers in line. _I can worry about strange allies later._

.o.O.o.

There was a bone-jarring _thud _as Britain and France collided, falling in one roaring mass of black and blue. They were almost equal in size, though that mattered little as they plummeted towards the forested hills, their battle fought with fang and talon and long centuries of bitter experience behind them. France had gotten his teeth firmly lodged in Britain's shoulder-scales and kept his grip even as the island roared and tore viciously into his side. The continental Nation replied in kind as Britain snapped and bit at his neck in an attempt to dislodge the fangs trying to wrest their way through his dark scales. A particularly vicious slash left France reeling in pain, pushing himself from Britain as Arthur swiped at him again with a bloodied silver-grey paw, and the two banked apart as their descent brought them perilously close to the hillside. Not one to give up the chase, however, Britain angled his wings, and with the agility born of long experience, barely clipped the treetops as he swerved into a trajectory that brought him up into France's side. Caught off guard, the blue dragon roared in pain as Britain crashed into him, bowling him over and knocking him out of balance, tumbling him from the sky.

Britain dove for where France went down, but he was breathing heavily and his shoulder ached, the cracked scales pinching viciously. _Damnation, I'm not healing as fast as I should...!_ Knowing that his strength may not be up to an extended fight with his ancient rival due to the state of invasion, Britain reached for the Empire-Colony bond that tied him to Canada and Australia, the colonies engaged in the battle above, having left the Nations to their own fight. _I'll be damned if I lose to France, but even so..._ It was a chance, and only that, but even so he sent a blast of _wounded-help-come_ up the link and hoped that they would feel it.

France was ready for him when he came down, so instead of knocking the other empire off of his feet as Britain had hoped, Francis executed a graceful dodge to the side, and Arthur had to brake his descent, almost crashing into the ground. He backwinged furiously, barely making his landing, and had to spin around as fast as he could to meet France's charge. They hit shoulder-to-shoulder and toppled, blue over black, and rolled, slashing and biting, France almost puncturing Britain's eye, Arthur nearly breaking a few of Francis' ribs.

Breaking apart and scrambling to their feet, Britain braced himself as France lunged, ducking his head so that the other dragon's teeth caught on the crown of horns extending back from his head, then _twisted_, fangs scraping against horn, and then one caught, puncturing a hole in the roof of Francis' muzzle. The Frenchdrake reeled back, whimpering in pain as blood leaked from his mouth and narrowly avoiding Britain's following strike, his jaws flashing towards France but clamping uselessly on thin air.

Undeterred, Francis snapped forward again, grazing past Arthur's defences and going for the shoulder he had already injured. Steel-trap jaws had broken and dislodged scales the first time around, and now France's teeth found those chinks in the armour and sunk in deep, through scale and flesh alike. Britain keened, pain lacing the high-pitched cry as he struggled, trying to throw off the royal-blue dragon, but France only dug his teeth in further, bracing his paws against the ground, his claws tearing great furrows into the soil. Unable to wrench his neck around without _helping _France tear him apart and risking toppling from loss of balance if he struck with his foreclaws, Britain had few options, most of them painful.

Steeling himself, Arthur pulled his wings in tight and lashed out with a quick, controlled strike. The delicate wrist joint of his wing slammed into the base of Francis' neck with bruising force, causing the continental Nation to wheeze as his airways compressed. Twice more Britain struck before France relented, loosening his jaws. Taking the window of opportunity, Arthur wrenched his mangled shoulder back and brought his opposite forepaw around in a short but strong blow to the side of France's head. France went cross-eyed for a moment, stunned, but the torn muscles in Britain's shoulder failed, unable to hold his weight, and he collapsed forward before he could catch himself, landing painfully as his flesh began to knit itself back together. The less-injured France recovered more quickly, shaking his head to clear it and baring his bloodstained teeth. Gathering his weight on his haunches, Francis sprung forward like a hunting cat, claws outstretched. Britain clenched his jaw and tried to struggle to his feet, white-hot pain flashing through his nerves as France filled his field of vision.

Suddenly - no more France. He was knocked aside – two smaller figures dropping from the sky without warning, one then the other crashing into the heavyweight's side, the three slamming into the forest floor, flattening more than a few trees before they skidded to a halt.

Britain heaved himself to his feet as the two Colonies recovered from the impact. _They heard; they came, they came. _Little Australia, spined and poison-fanged and venom-clawed and altogether deadly despite his youth and small stature, mauled Francis a bit more than he already had, just for good measure, then jumped off to the side, hunching his wings and back and hissing impressively. Canada laid himself bodily on the larger heavyweight, who was starting to twitch and stiffen from Australia's toxins.

"The battle is over! You have lost, _Empire Français_, and your troops are retreating. Leave, or we cut you down, and when you heal, your lines will be far from you."

France growled, but appeared to concede the point. Britain and France alone were generally an even match, but the presence of the colonies tipped the scales heavily in Britain's favour, and it was indeed true that his troops were in retreat. He gave a last discontented snarl in Britain's direction and limped off toward his lines, too venom-stricken to fly.

For his own part, Arthur was glad for his Colonies' presence, but it did mean that he, as their master, had to maintain a strong front, which was becoming increasingly hard to do as the fight's adrenalin receded and exhaustion set in, both from the physical exertion and the drain from healing. Grey crept in around the edges of Britain's vision as Canada and Australia came to stand beside him and minuscule tremors wracked his frame.

"Very... well done, lads." And it was, both in the main battle and in their timely intervention. He managed an affectionate nuzzle for both and was rewarded when Canada stood straighter, head raised, and Australia ruffled his wings with pride – _look, I helped save Britain! _- but even that little bit sapped even more of his energy and he shuddered. Blood seeped through rents and gashes that were closing but slowly – France's invasion had indeed been taking its toll.

Canada, worried, watched him falter. "Britain? Arthur, you are badly wounded! Let..." The western Colony hesitated, unsure if he was being too bold. "Let us carry you back to camp. There you can at least rest and regain your strength."

Great Britain stared at him for a long moment, and Canada felt very small under the intimidating gaze of the huge dragon. Then the moment was broken as Arthur shifted, settling his weight on his less-injured foreleg. "I suppose that may be for the best."

Space and mass shifted as the island's body compacted in on itself, pale skin forming from pitch scales, wings and talons and horns vanishing, clothes reappearing. Red spots on the fabric immediately started to appear as his wounds bled liberally. One arm hung limp and lifeless, the other pressing a hand to his ribs as Arthur gathered his strength for a moment, eyes closed and back painfully straight, his face carefully devoid of emotion or pain, before nodding to his Colonies. Canada laid his paws upon the ground, palms upturned and talons open, delicately closing about his Empire's battered frame before lifting off, heading back to the British forces.

.o.O.o.

""_But if we have more liberty than we ought," Laurence said after a moment, struggling through, "it is because they have not enough: the dragons. They have no stake in victory but our happiness; their daily bread any nation would give them just to have peace and quiet. We are given license so long as we do what we ought not: so long as we use their affections to keep them obedient and quiet, to ends which serve them not at all – or which harm."_  
_ "How else do you make them care?" Granby said. "If we left off, the French would only run right over us, and take our eggs themselves."_  
_ "They care in China," Laurence said, "and in Africa, and care all the more, that their rational sense is not imposed on, and their hearts put into opposition with their minds. If they cannot be woken to a natural affection for their country, such as we feel, it is our fault and not theirs."_"

.o.O.o.

Temeraire tried to sit as still as he could as the surgeon got between his scales to remove bullets that had lodged between them and those that had punctured deeper, into the meat of him. Ensign Roland was by the doctor's side, learning over his shoulder as he worked, and supplied a fast hand to wipe away the dark blood that dribbled from the small punctures. Every now and then he would wriggle, for it was quite uncomfortable, and the surgeon would grace him with a sharp word. All in all, he did not care, for though the battle was won, Laurence was looking fairly miserable. He had not been injured, Temeraire was certain, so the Celestial figured that it must be the impending doom of execution that weighed upon his mind.

His talons involuntarily clenched at the thought. _They will not! I shall not allow it! Laurence is a hero, plainly said, and the Admiralty has done not even half as much as any naval midshipman against Napoléon - it is they who should be hung... _he continued to grumble furiously to himself in the privacy of his own mind, ignoring the crewmen that noticed his evident agitation and skirted him widely. Of course, Laurence stayed, dear Laurence, who had a hand against his muzzle in a comforting gesture. The surgeon finally pronounced him done and went to clean his bloodstained hands and tools in a washbasin.

Laurence smiled and scratched one of Temeraire's eye ridges, into which he leaned with a grateful rumble. "There you are, my dear. Now, shall we get you cleaned up? There is a lake not far from here where we might wash away the grime."

Temeraire was all for this. Gunpowder, pepper-gun residue, and blood still clung to his scales and it would be a relief to be properly scrubbed again. Perhaps it might even take Laurence's mind off of the looming future, which would be a blessing.

A great flutter of wings was heard and wind pressure suddenly increased as a pair of dragons Temeraire only vaguely recognised banked almost directly overhead, landing in a small, secluded clearing near theirs, separated only by a very sparse line of trees and brush. His own was towards the edge of the camp - _Most likely no-one wishes to associate with ones so recently named 'traitor'_, he thought glumly. Maximus, Lily, their old formation, and many of the unharnessed dragons from Pen Y Fan were settled nearby, but closer in towards the main camp where it would be a better walking distance for their crews. He craned his head upwards, trying to see why they would be coming in so fast but were landing so far from the centre of camp.

His eyes widened as he saw the big red - _Though not as big as myself_, he noted offhandedly - carrying a man in his talons. The coat the man wore was dark, dirty, and bloodstained; Temeraire could not tell if the original colour was the Corps' bottle-green or the Navy's blue. The red heavyweight settled his forepaws upon the ground and the injured man rose, albeit with some veiled difficulty, sliding from the larger dragon's palms to steady himself on the proffered foreleg of the smaller one. Straightening his back and steeling his shoulders, the man removed his hand from the smaller dragon with a pat of thanks and began a steady, if slow, pace towards camp.

This, Temeraire would not let stand. How could those two just stand there when someone who was obviously in pain needed to get to the medical tents as soon as possible? He felt his neck ruff rising with indignance at this slight. They'd carried him in from the field, so it seemed, and they could not take him just the little bit further into camp? The nerve!

"Excuse me," Temeraire interjected, his tone icy, "but the medical tents are in the centre of camp. I suggest you go there, rather than here, if help is needed."

The two dragons looked up and over at him, startled, and the Celestial could feel Laurence jolt, surprised, from where he leaned on his foreleg. The human turned his head, fixing Temeraire with an unreadable gaze. "You. Dragon. Are you suggesting that I am not fit enough to walk into camp on my own?" The stranger's tone was equally cold, though Temeraire could detect a bare hint of pain beneath staid British resolve, but the rudeness of it still rankled him. _Dragon_, indeed! Still, Laurence was always lecturing about compassion...

Acting on impulse, he scooped Laurence into his paws and with a hop and a few wingbeats was over the small trees to the other clearing in but a moment. Upon landing, Laurence let out a stifled gasp of "Good _God_, man!" and rushed to the other's side, supporting him as he threw the man's uninjured arm around his shoulders. The other hung uselessly, and its attached shoulder had the most blood of anywhere on the coat. The dragons that had brought him in had given a sudden start, protectively moving in to cover their wounded - charge? Captain? - from Temeraire, and the smaller one bristled, made all the more intimidating with spines extended. The heavyweight puffed out his chest and mantled his wings, the leathery membrane semitransparent in the sunlight. "This is none of your business, good sir, and we must respectfully ask that you return to your encampment."

"Bollocks," Laurence snapped, and Temeraire blinked in surprise at his captain, who would normally never condone the use of such language, least of all use it himself. "He needs medical attention _now_, and if you are unwilling, I shall take him myself."

The injured man growled at that, the sound so draconic Temeraire almost mistook from whom it came. Apparently it startled Laurence as well, as he swung his head around to stare. "While I may not seem perfectly all right, I can assure you that my wounds are not as threatening as they appear. I am not in need of assistance, thankful though I am that you have offered." He began to remove his arm from Laurence's shoulders, but the captain caught his wrist before he could do so. They were two of a kind, much the same build - average height but broad-shouldered - and despite protestations, one of them was weakened. Even as they spoke, Temeraire could see a dark stain transferring itself from the side of the stranger's coat to Laurence's.

The aviator had evidently noticed as well. With the quiet stubbornness that kept his head held high despite everything, he strengthened his hold on the injured man and started marching him in Temeraire's direction. "You are suffering, and though I would normally be inclined to respect a man's decisions, the magnitude of blood that your coat alone seems to have wicked is enough to convince me otherwise. So pray be silent, sir, and allow us to bring you to where you may be treated."

Still rumbling with that odd, draconic growl, the man forcibly wrenched himself away from Laurence, seemingly as easy as though the aviator were no stronger than a mere boy, but the effort seemed to cost him and he stumbled, dropping to one knee. A grunt of pain escaped him, hurt flashing over his features. "_Leave me_," came the low snarl. His coat had fallen open, and Temeraire could see the enormous red stain that almost covered what he could see of the white linen undershirt.

Temeraire made a snap decision. The little spined dragon looked about ready to fling itself upon Laurence in defence of the stranger, and he could not leave his captain in such peril. However, he couldn't very well leave the strange man behind either. Though he had been quite rude, it was obviously because of the pain and Temeraire had to admit that injuries were indeed trying on one's patience. He would have to grab them both. It was good that they were so close together.

In a split-second flurry of paws and wings, the Celestial shot forward and scooped both humans into his grasp, bunching his hindquarters and launching himself skyward. Angling for the middle of camp, he put on as much speed as he could - a muted roar resounded from the clearing and Temeraire knew without looking that one of the dragons had leapt into flight behind him. The quick, light wingbeats told him that it was the smaller, more excitable one, not the red heavyweight.

He beat faster, hoping to outpace the young middleweight. The flight was a sprint, not long and drawn out where he would have the advantage of greater stamina, and the littler one was empowered by rage and who knew what else. Temeraire skimmed over the treetops, passing over the clearings of other dragons that looked up to see what all the commotion was. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that the spined dragon was keeping up right behind him, and the red had taken flight as well, bearing down upon them from behind its smaller companion.

_They are quick,_ Temeraire thought grimly, _though hopefully not quick enough, and they are tired - their wings were shaky as they set down. Unfortunately, so are mine. Just a little bit more..._ His tail clipped the top of an evergreen and sent needles and cones rattling to the ground in a pine-scented rain. Soldiers cursed and scattered below as the Celestial's black form swooped lower, almost to the open area near one of the few buildings in the area, a two-level structure that had been commandeered by the army and turned into a makeshift hospital, surrounded by tents for the housing of those in less-critical shape. The cleared field where no tents stood was just barely overlarge enough, having been kept uncluttered with a few middleweights in mind - it had not been thought that a heavyweight would be ferrying the injured. _I will still be able to land, though I must watch my tail..._ And suddenly he noticed that his tail must need a little more watching than he thought, for a roar from behind shook his scales. _They're catching...!_

A trio of powerful, air-displacing backwings and then his hindpaws hit the soil, nearby tents straining at their posts and tethers from the wind. Hurriedly, Temeraire laid his forepaws down to release the two he held in his grasp. The injured one, despite his bloodied condition, was not in the least amused or accepting of this treatment - even from his high vantage point, the dragon could see the tensed muscles, the wild, narrow eyes, and he worried for his Laurence as his captain attempted to bodily haul the other man to the building, though it was a battle to even get the stranger to budge but a little. At least he was not being so rude anymore, just stubbornly not quite ready to resign himself to the healers - for whatever reason, Temeraire knew not. Luckily, a physician from inside the hospital saw them - or, more likely, Temeraire - and a trio of men ran out to help Laurence, and none too soon.

The middleweight landed.

It was a tight fit, even though the other dragon was young and small, but there was just enough space; it barrelled down in a snarling, spitting rush of claws, spines, and dark bronze-brown scales, crying something in an accent, perhaps even a language, that Temeraire failed to comprehend. Whatever it said was unimportant, what _was_ important was that he was headed straight for Laurence. Temeraire roared and swiped at it, but it was too close to him to properly aim - he missed, barely. A panicked call - "_Laurence!_" - and the captain and doctors turned...

"_Hold._"

The way the smaller dragon slammed to a halt was almost comical; all four paws dug into the ground and his tail as well, many of the spikes on the end thudding into the dirt as it almost faceplanted into the ground in its effort to stop its own forward momentum. The humans looked shaken, and Temeraire would have pinned the earth-toned youngling to the ground save for that it was already prone, meek under the glare of the injured one - _and I remember how that Papillion Noir fell from the sky after being pierced_. The effort had cost the man though, and he slumped, finally at the end of his strength, putting up no more complaint as the physicians hauled him off, save the irritated expression that never left his face. Laurence followed them into the building with one last apologetic glance back at Temeraire, who was now once again worried about the spiny little dragon now that its captain was gone. _For it must be his captain, it has to be, else why would he react so?_

The other dragon turned to him, having extricated itself from the ground, the long spines ripping up chunks of dirt. The expression on its face was murderous and it bristled angrily. It would have spoken, probably, but at that moment the heavyweight that had accompanied it made an appearance overhead, banking to turn in a wide circle around them. "Return, Pyropus!" it called, obviously addressing its companion, "He will be safe." The little one was not convinced in the slightest, apparent by the way it hunched and hissed, yelling up to the big red in a lilting, almost musical language that in normal circumstances would have Temeraire intrigued. As it passed over him, it called down to the Celestial, "And I would have words with you as well. Please, follow us back - we may go to your clearing if you might feel more at ease doing so."

_A relative compromise_. _Very well_. "I accept." Still wary of the spiny one but reassured by the way the other stranger was willing to approach Temeraire on what was relatively his 'own' grounds, he rose, going aloft and angling back towards his edge of the camp as the heavyweight banked to follow and an earthy glint of bronze scales below signalled the young middleweight's presence as well. They flew back to Temeraire's clearing, and the other two circled as the Celestial landed, informing his crew that he was entertaining visitors - and would they please find Gong Su and ask him if he might make tea? The two overhead descended as the remnants of his crew scattered to make room.

Temeraire watched them as they landed, he himself curling his tail neatly around so that he might appear elegant and in control, despite the fact that he still hadn't had a wash after the battles earlier. The strangers were much the same, smelling of metallic blood and acrid gunpowder, and Temeraire hoped that the tea would come soon so that he could at least focus on the soothing taste. The large red settled itself to Temeraire's front, wings mantling and showing off their sunset colouring for a moment before folding properly, and the little one kept next to its larger companion, pacing in a frustrated circle for the while, agitation keeping it from sitting still. Temeraire arched his neck, displaying his ruff, though not in a threatening manner - moreso to display his status as one of the rarest and most valued dragon-breeds alive. _I do hope they can appreciate that, though with the young one's coarse manners it is hard to believe that he would even know what China _is. He cleared his throat.

"Now that we are settled, I believe it is time for some issues to be explained. You wished to speak with me?" He tried his best to emulate Laurence at his most patient; it simply would not do to appear anything less than composed in front of these strangers.

The heavyweight nodded its head gracefully, purple-tinted muzzle dipping fractionally with ease and confidence, and Temeraire sat up a little straighter. _Where are you from? You have the cultured bearing much as some I met in China, but I do not recognise your breed._ When it spoke, Temeraire tried to place the odd close-but-not-quite-British accent, but was unable to do so. "I did. It appears that some matters are in need of explanation. Before we talk though, I must introduce myself. Hriðhige is what I am called, and this is Pyropus." The little bronze middleweight had finally stopped moving and laid down, but was still being insociable, giving the Celestial a hard look and pointedly not speaking to him, so Temeraire decided to ignore him outright. _Honestly, so rude! Perhaps he gets it from his captain_.

Temeraire nodded in return to the heavyweight, acknowledging. "And I am Temeraire. Now, I am curious to know - what were you doing, bringing an injured man into camp so far from help?"

At that moment, Gong Su and several of Temeraire's ground crew returned to the clearing, laboriously carrying with them an enormous pot that smelled of black tea, and three great bowls, one smaller than the other two, and the Chinaman oversaw the pouring of tea for each dragon, prostrating himself before serving Temeraire, as usual, but also delighting as the other two accepted their tea graciously, even Pyropus, expressing their surprise at being served and at the deliciousness of the tea. As the humans retreated from camp, Temeraire delicately set down his still-steaming, half-full bowl and looked expectantly at Hriðhige. The red dragon took another sip of his tea before carefully placing it on the grass before him; beside his larger companion the little bronze hadn't even bothered to use its paws to raise the bowl, content to drop its head and sip instead - Temeraire noted then that it did not have opposable claws with which to grip the tea bowl.

"Well then, I suppose you would appreciate having your question answered," the heavyweight began. "The fact of the matter, in its simplest terms, is that his injuries were not of a severity that required medical attention, despite how it may have seemed from your limited perspective of the situation. As you should know, serving in the Corps as you do, supplies during wartime are limited and must be saved for those that need them the most. Come morning, he would have been up and about, fit as any here and ready to do his duty, all _without_ an extended visit to the physicians. You must have noted for yourself his reluctance to comply with you."

And he did remember, but that was entirely beside the point, and more importantly they had brought up a sore spot that forever rankled the Celestial. Duty. Temeraire hissed, and damn if he didn't remember every single word of his conversations with Laurence about duty to one's country, duty to the people, duty to one's superiors, and how insensible it all had seemed. It was more of a love for Laurence and a respect of his captain's love for his country than any true sense of duty that had brought him out of Pen Y Fan in command of a misfit draconic army. Duty had thrown his life into shambles. "_Duty_. Duty would have good men make traitors of themselves, sacrificing all for those that do not deserve their loyalty. Duty kept Laurence and I apart, with him in danger of walking willingly to his death! What has _duty_ ever done in return for those who have served the concept their whole lives? Is that all you care about, this man - _your captain_ - merely be able to 'do his duty'? It is as bad as that awful Rankin, in its own way, when he abused poor Levitas, save that now it appears that the reverse is true, where we who should _protect_ our men don't even care enough to see them safe!"

Pyropus, who had previously been content to be silently hostile, exploded with vitriolic fury. "An' who are _you_ t'be lecturin' t' _us_ about the value of _safety_ and _duty_? 'Tis obvious you 'ave no sense o' the former, and th' only one's safety you care abou' is your captain. What abou' the people of your Country, eh? 'ave you no care for _their_ safety and freedom? Oh, tha's righ', you don't _care_ about duty, or responsibility, or the liberty of your _Country_, or -"

"_Pyropus_." Hriðhige's quiet voice was deeply displeased, but the smaller dragon snapped back at the larger, increasingly incensed and caustic. "No! Do not order my silence; I care no' if you are th' favoured one. I shall say whatever I wish!"

"That you will _not_. You cannot watch your tongue, and would embarrass our lord." Hriðhige's tone was all crackling brimstone, though its fires were banked, and his tail twitched from side to side behind him in annoyance. The two stared each other down, a silent battle of wills, before Pyropus relented, obviously still unhappy, and the red heavyweight's attention fixed back on Temeraire. "Forgive him, sometimes he does not remember that he should not challenge outright in this time of war," he continued on in his quiet voice, but the baleful eye that he turned to the Celestial was anything but merciful. "However, that does not excuse _you_, and your blatant disrespect."

Temeraire pulled his head back, his ruff instinctively flaring. "I only speak of what is true. Sensibility seems to be put aside in favour of concepts such as duty, and patriotism. _England_-" he almost spat the word, and offhandedly felt a mild gladness that Longwings were generally even-tempered, "-would slaughter the dragons of Europe, and even China, if it would ensure their victory over Napoléon! They blame him for a multitude of evils when they themselves perform an act more heinous than any I have ever heard attributed to the French. And when one good man would put a stop to their..." he paused, searching for a word, the rising fury that was clouding his mind keeping the proper vocabulary from him, until he settled upon one that Laurence had once read and then explained to him, and gone quiet when he did so, "..._genocide_, then they would put that man to death, for he thwarted their plans. Tell me then, why _should_ I show respect to such a nation, when men such as the Admiralty show such decay of reason?"

Violet eyes narrowed with veiled anger, but to a specific slight or to his tirade in general Temeraire knew not. The quiet voice held, never raising in volume, but Temeraire felt a chilling prickle under his scales when Hriðhige spoke next. "And such would a malcontent say when discussing the government, and at some times such malcontents are indeed necessary, but the government alone does not a Nation make, and sometimes one evil may be needed to combat another-No!" Hriðhige bared his fangs at the Celestial's immediate hiss and wing-mantling. "I do not abide their decision! Do not make that mistake! For an evil act it was; there is no denying such, save for those that made the decision and deny it to themselves so that they may sleep more easily. But what you do not seem to realise is that sometimes there must be sacrifices made - it is a testament to the willpower of your captain that he would willingly choose the path of his own ruin so that he might save others, but in your contempt of the government you belittle his sacrifice! Yes, I have heard of you, Temeraire, and of your captain, and I know of what you did. Laurence would suffer so that the dragons of Europe might live, he serves so that he might protect the people of this, his Country, and safeguard Britain from its enemies, both within and without. What do you fight for, other than your captain? Britain will remember Captain Laurence for years to come - the aviator who defied his own Nation, but loved it so much that he would return to face its judgement. He will go down in history for his loyalty. You? For all of your intelligence, you cannot seem to comprehend the concept of self-sacrifice for the greater good - or, as said concept is commonly known as, _duty_." The red heavyweight bared his teeth deprecatingly, wings ruffled and hunched over his back.

Temeraire bristled at the insult, his talons flexing in anger and digging furrows into the dirt, his last efforts at keeping civility crumbling away. _How dare he speak as if he knows me! _"I would sacrifice myself for love of Laurence, and that is enough for me! What do I care if history remembers me or not so long as my captain is there with me to see it happen! If we are thrown from Britain, or even refused by China, or any and every other government of the earth, as long as Laurence lives I would be content. You may ridicule me for it, but considering that you would let _your_ captain suffer for the sake of your precious _duty_, I am not entirely sure that you would understand such singular devotion." The Celestial drew his head up, gaining superior height over the smaller heavyweight, and flared his ruff. "As for loyalty to a nation, be as it may, the fact of the matter remains that men - and dragons! - bleed and die for their people, for their _country_, but the country does not bleed for them in return. The people might show their gratitude, but the nation just lumbers on, unconcerned as ever when good men like Laurence would be brave and loyal or when horrid men like those of the Admiralty would slaughter every last dragon in Europe for a chance at superiority!"

Unable to remain silent any longer, Pyropus, who had been pacing like a caged beast next to his larger companion, snarled violently, spreading his wings, spines standing up stiffly. When he spoke, it was with barely-restrained fury, but his eyes caught the Celestial's and held his gaze, and for a moment Temeraire felt lost, engulfed by something the enormity of which he had no ability to describe, and then it was gone, sensed for no more than a moment. "You have _no idea_ how much your Nation bleeds for its people. _Even for you_." The little dragon, trembling with fury, gathered itself on its haunches and launched itself up, almost immediately disappearing over the tree line.

Temeraire growled at this retreat as he watched the young middleweight go, but swung back to Hriðhige when the red dragon raised himself up, evidently to follow the other. "I believe this matter has been discussed to its fullest, for the moment. Now, if you will excuse me-" his voice was brittle, but still unfailingly polite in that odd accent of his, "-I must go and ensure that your blundering has not caused a major incident." And he was off, leaving Temeraire seething in his backdraft, alone in his clearing.

.o.O.o.

""_But Laurence," Temeraire said, at once glad and baffled, "it was my fault, surely: it was my notion we should go to France in the first place. Only, I did not know that they should take your capital, and your rank; and I am sorry-"_  
_ "I am not," Laurence said. "I should give more than that, and count it cheap, to preserve my conscience; I am ashamed to have submitted to despair so far as to ever have thought differently."_  
_ Temeraire did not wish to argue in the least: Laurence sounded like himself again, if still drawn and perhaps unhappy, and that was worth anything; but privately he could not help a certain resentment that a conscience seemed to be so very expensive, and yet had no substantial form which one might admire, and display to one's company._"

.o.O.o.

Laurence was expecting continued resistance once they landed, and was not disappointed, but after the terrifying instant when he thought the strange dragon might well kill them but instead was rebuked, the other man was strangely compliant – no, _resigned_, more like – so when the physicians rushed to take him from the aviator, careful of his injuries, he accepted their bracing hands with only minor grumbling. With a glance over his shoulder to be sure that Temeraire was all right, sure that he would be able to handle himself against the little feral, Laurence followed on the heels of the men guiding the injured man - _is he an aviator? His coat, it's green under all that blood…_ He wasn't about to leave this strange man alone, without even knowing who he was.

One medic called for a doctor as the other two steered their patient to a room with an empty cot, the others all filled with other soldiers, some more wounded than others. Seeing this, the man stiffened in their grasp, but, undeterred, they manhandled him expertly over to the cot, one immediately stripping his coat, another going for supplies. Quick hands worked under the unsettling gaze of the stranger, and as they stripped him, Laurence noticed something odd as the medics removed the man's clothing. _There's no rips or tears; no bullet holes or even a blade slash. Nothing. So where is all this blood coming from? _His face paled as his answer was given with the loss of the undershirt and trousers, and even with all his experience at sea and then with the Aerial Corps, he could feel sick bile rising in his throat at the sight. _Dear heavens…_

The pale ivory of bone, unbroken but visible, peeked out from tremendous gashes that rent the man open from ribs to mid-thigh. A group of slashes on one side looked to have come dangerously close to severing his quadriceps and the main leg artery – instant death on the battlefield, where he would have bled out almost immediately. _And those dragons that brought him in expected him to _walk_ on that leg?_ _Inconceivable!_ Ignoring, of course, the fact that the stranger indeed managed to start walking before Temeraire had, with his usual unflappable disregard, barrelled into the situation; he shouldn't be able to stand at all. It was obvious why his shoulder was as limp and useless as it was - not only was it dislocated, but whatever had rent his flesh – Laurence could not believe a man possible of this… this _savagery _– had utterly shredded everything that lay between bicep and neck. White splinters of collarbone lay amidst the rest of the oozing gore, starkly pale against the red background.

Laurence wasn't quite sure how this man was still alive.

Apparently the medics were of Laurence's opinion, though they hid it better. Clean water and bandages were laid out as they cleaned away blood, both dried and wet, and dirt, one of the three delicately handling a pair of tweezers and removing the larger bone slivers from the man's shoulder. Throughout it all, Laurence saw with stunned amazement, the stranger remained under their ministrations with only a mild look of discomfort and pain. When he caught the aviator watching, he merely raised one bushy eyebrow, a corner of his lips twitching upwards with dark amusement. Footsteps approached from behind, and Laurence turned to see an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a small pair of spectacles perched upon his nose, and heard one of the men behind him say to the patient, "This is the surgeon; he will help you as best he can. We are going to give you liquor now, so you won't-"

"That will not be necessary." The command came from two directions, confusing Laurence for a moment. _What…?_ The surgeon's lips pulled into a thin smile – it was he and the stranger who had both spoken and Laurence saw the blond man motioning at the elder to continue with his good hand, despite the noise of protest from one of the younger physicians. The surgeon strode forward purposefully, retrieving the tweezers from the man who held them and waving the trio away. "One of you, stay. Be useful and start in on those pads and bandages." They froze only for a moment, likely as confused as Laurence, before one nodded the others off and went to retrieve the gauze and wraps as instructed. The surgeon gave a low chuckle, deftly plucking splintered bone from meaty pulp. The patient rolled his eyes. "You don't have to do this for me, Harper."

The surgeon, Doctor Harper, just shook his head. "Call it a favour, for whatever you were doing to get yourself so bloody thrashed." More shards of red-spattered ivory-white fell into the sterilized bowl. "And what are you doing _here_, at all? I thought it was your policy to avoid this place as much as possible. After all, it's not often that you ever _need_ the services of a man such as myself."

A glower, though not as venomous as before, shot towards Laurence. "I was… forcibly redirected."

Harper laughed outright at that, and followed the gaze over to where Laurence still stood. "And you brought him in then, eh? Probably snarling like a feral dragon and resisting all the way, I would bet. Brave of you to put up with him. Still, it was for the best you did."

The stranger's head snapped up. "How can you-!"

"And you would have _liked _to keep this mess in your shoulder, mm?" The tweezers waved a particularly long and needle-like sliver in front of the man's nose.

Green eyes blazed as the patient snapped at the doctor. "Your skills and supplies could be put to better use elsewhere; it is not as if suffering and I are strangers-"

Harper interrupted yet again. "No, merely very old acquaintances with a long and unhealthy relationship. Now budge up, so Yates here can get these bandages in place." The surgeon stepped back as the younger medic stepped in, done wrapping the long, unstitched gashes with gauze pads and linen bandages and now moving on to the shoulder, obviously quite unhappy about not giving any further treatment to a man who rightfully should have been on his deathbed. The elder man raised an eyebrow at the one on the cot. "Now, you're getting moved to a private room and will sleep for a while. For you, rest should do more good than anything else I can offer. Oh, don't give me that look." He shook a finger at his recalcitrant patient. "And no visitors either. I don't care if the king himself waltzes in - you're not entertaining and certainly not leaving until I give my say-so."

The blond man was about to retaliate when the medic took his arm, Doctor Harper on the other side with a careful hand, and together they marched him out. Laurence stared after them in bemusement, wondering if he should follow. If nothing else, he should remove himself from the sick-ward - the sight and stench of injured men was enough to unsettle many a soldier, and though Laurence kept his head better than most, he was not unaffected. A few steps out the door, though, and he was stopped by a hand on his arm. Turning, he questioned, "Yes...?"

It was the surgeon, Doctor Harper. "If I might beg a moment of your time, good sir?" Laurence nodded and the two stepped out, away from the injured and their attending physicians. The surgeon drew him over to a window – not particularly secluded, but at least there was a small gift of fresh air, a blessing in a crowded building such as this. Harper turned to him, expression unreadable. "I wanted to thank you for bringing him here... Captain?" Laurence nodded in affirmation. "As you undoubtedly heard, the stubborn man does his best to avoid hospices at all cost, but more often than not, he does not need them at all. You noted the state of his injuries?"

Laurence's eyes narrowed. "It was impossible to miss. Sir, I served in the Navy before I was an aviator, and have seen men lose their lives to far less than what this man appears to regard as no more than a slight inconvenience – how is it possible? You know him, and he seemed familiar with you; can you explain why this is?"

"It is not my place to say." Harper shook his head, the lenses of his glasses glinting with the movement. "However..." he gave Laurence a penetrating glance, grey eyes sharp and knowing, "he might be willing to tell you himself, considering the circumstances."

The aviator quirked an eyebrow, entirely disbelieving. "Considering his hostility towards me, sir, and the fact that I did bring him here against his will, I doubt that he would be willing to tell me _anything_, much less the reason why he can survive a... a _mauling_ such as what he suffered."

Chuckling lowly, the doctor clapped a hand on Laurence's shoulder. "You'd be surprised, Captain. You're stubborn; if you really want to know the mystery behind the man, come back in, oh, three hours, and I'll let you ask your questions of him. Until then, I'm sure a Corps lad like you has better things to be doing than getting in the way of my medical team, and I'm not letting anyone in to see Kirkland for that long at least." A pointed look, and Laurence, assured of a chance to ask the questions that plagued him, took his leave, intent on getting back to Temeraire.

_Kirkland. If nothing else, I now know this stranger's name._

.o.O.o.

"...and then they just _left_! 'The matter has been discussed to its fullest.'" Temeraire snorted indignantly, the tendrils on his muzzle waving in the breeze and the surface water of the pond where he had _finally_ gotten his bath kicked up a few ripples that might more accurately be described as small waves. "_I_ certainly was not finished, not in the least. It was all _extremely_ rude, and I had even offered them tea beforehand." Laurence stroked the dragon's cheek back to the base of his ruff, trying to comfort him as the Celestial ranted about his two 'visitors'.

"Well, I shall be going to talk to this 'Kirkland' fellow in a little while. Perhaps he will tell me about this Pyropus and Hriðhige, and why they acted as they did." _And why they think like they do – I have never even heard of dragons in Europe that actually have a sense of patriotism! Duty is understood by some, but mostly a dragon will follow their captain, nothing more_.

"From what you said, their captain was just as rude." Temeraire cocked his head to the side. "I wonder why he captains two dragons? Or perhaps one is just a feral that follows them around. Or perhaps they are like the dragons from Pen Y Fan and grew bored of the breeding grounds, though why the little one would be there is odd - he is much too young to be giving eggs to females. Perhaps there is some other reason."

Laurence sighed and scratched Temeraire's eye ridge as the dragon pondered. He was both anticipating and dreading going back to the hospital building to face the strange man. Temeraire was right; he had been quite unpleasant, but a man who by all rights should have been on his deathbed could be allowed a measure of irritability. Still, Laurence expected nothing less than brusqueness when he confronted the stranger.

.o.O.o.

"It's good that you could make it."

Laurence shrugged as Doctor Harper turned and motioned for the aviator to follow. "I do have questions, whether he is willing to answer them or not, and some of them I bring from Temeraire about the companions that brought him in."

"Companions of his?" The physician gave Laurence an odd glance. "Would these companions have been army lads, perhaps a little younger than would normally enlist?"

Confused, the Captain responded, "No, not at all – he was accompanied by two dragons, a heavyweight and a young middleweight, of what breeds neither I nor my dragon could recognise. They carried him to the encampment, presumably straight from the battle, and would have left him on the far edge of camp near the furthest-sited dragons had Temeraire not intervened."

"Ah, I see." Laurence could not fathom the understanding that came over the surgeon's expression. Did he know the dragons that appeared with the stranger? And why did he expect his patient to have been returned from the field by overly-young soldiers – army, at that, since Kirkland had been wearing a bottle-green Aerial Corps coat. _All to be answered soon, Lord willing._

Doctor Harper turned and stopped before a heavy door on the second floor of the building. Raising his hand to knock, he first turned to Laurence. "Sir Kirkland has been awake for half an hour at most, but I am not sure of how much his disposition may have improved. He is generally agreeable enough, though somewhat abrasive and prone to fits of cold temper. I would suggest, Captain, to be diplomatic in your phrasing."

Laurence's eyebrows shot upwards in shock before he managed to rein his expression under control. _Sir Kirkland? A member of the Chivalry? The more I learn about this man..._ But Harper made no further comment and rapped his knuckles upon the door before opening it, the wood swinging inwards with a miserable creaking noise. The mysterious stranger, Kirkland – _Sir _ Kirkland, as it were – regarded them from where he sat on the bed, sheets pulled up to his hips. "I was wondering when you were going to arrive, Harper. I must thank you for leaving the window open – it would have been a sight stuffier in this little room otherwise." His gaze shifted over to the aviator, and Laurence felt the hairs at his nape prickle. _There is something very strange about you._ "Captain William Laurence. A surprise, to be certain, though not one wholly unexpected." A nod to the surgeon. "A moment, if you would, Harper."

He had given a slight start at the use of his full name and the man's knowledge of it, but recovered as the doctor spoke. "Ever at your service, sir. I'll leave you to your privacy." Harper nodded to Laurence on his way out, the door shutting with a sound much like its previous protest. Turning, he appraised the other man. He didn't look all that threatening, despite his harsh manner earlier and the odd thrill up the aviator's spine upon meeting his eyes. Just another man, on bed rest for being injured in war – except that wounds like his were not the type to be recovered from.

At a nod of invitation, Laurence approached the bedside, unsure of where to begin. The patient sighed. "You have no doubt already heard my name from Doctor Harper, the illustrious attending physician of this place, but allow me to introduce myself, as previous circumstances had not permitted me to do so. Arthur Kirkland." A nod, fairly courteous, but as equally rough as graceful. _You do not mention your title, or rank; why?_

Laurence returned it. "Captain William Laurence, of the Aerial Corps." A pause, loaded and trembling in the silence. "Though you already knew that, did you not, sir?"

One of the bushy eyebrows rose. "Indeed – though not just for your more recent... _accomplishments_—" With effort, Laurence kept his expression still and calm at the mention of his treason, for though the other's face was nigh-unreadable, there could be no doubt of what he spoke. "—of which I will keep my opinion to myself, as I am quite divided on the matter, so do not worry that I would condemn you. I know that you have served England, and Britain as a whole, in service with both the Navy and the Corps. An unusual combination, to be certain, though not unique. Your dragon, though, certainly is."

"Aye, that he is, though for as different as he is amongst the dragons I have known, I have never seen or met the like of those you yourself arrived with. Their breed I can only guess at, but that is not what baffles me." Laurence clasped his hands behind his back, his shoulders stiff, and asked that which had been disturbing him ever since he had heard it from Temeraire. "They are loyal to their country, not just their captains – you, I am assuming, though they were unharnessed when you arrived – and they understand the concept of duty, even have quite the sense of it themselves apparently, when many only know an attachment to their keepers and value only their possessions, be it people, trinkets, or capital. You must understand my surprise when I returned to Temeraire and heard of this."

A corner of Kirkland's mouth quirked upward with humour. "And here I thought you had come to ask about _me_." A low chuckle, but then his face slipped back into its firm set, eyes hard, and Laurence hoped that the civility he was currently being shown would not devolve back into the unpleasant rudeness of their first encounter. "No matter. You asked about Hriðhige and Pyropus. As to their breeds, I can answer that easily – they're mongrels, of no certain type more than another. Hriðhige is from the North American colonies, though he holds some traits of European dragons, and Pyropus... well. Though heavily British-influenced, he is from Australia, and though no dragons have yet been found there, _something _in his breeding gave him the spines you saw."

"And their values? Though I have tried to instil in Temeraire a sense of moral obligation and he certainly may feel driven to protect fellow creatures, the only connection to this, my country, _our_ country, that he feels is not to the nation itself, but to me, because I love it so – did I not insist that we return to England, he would have been perfectly happy to stay in China. Perhaps it is because he is a Chinese dragon, but I have not known any other transplants to feel the difference. Temeraire, though..." Shaking his head, Laurence continued with a heavy heart. "It does not matter as much now, certainly, since he may very well not remain in Britain once my sentence is carried out, but even so, I would like to think that someday he may come to regard this nation with some measure of fondness, even if he does not stay." Looking up, he met Kirkland's gaze, and his breath caught in his throat. Cold, opaque green had become startlingly fiery, and the intensity with which the other man held him in regard reminded him of nothing so much as a dragon's close scrutiny, weighing him, judging.

"And you would try so hard to give the beast values you hold so dear... why?" Eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, the injured man turned toward him, legs over the edge of the hospital bed, resting his elbows on his thighs and lacing his fingers together, all the while keeping his attention fixated on the aviator.

Cold anger rose in Laurence, at the offhand dismissal of dragons as 'beasts' from someone who was supposed to be an _aviator_ of all people – _perhaps he is another of Rankin's ilk_ - and the continued disrespect and mistrust of him and Temeraire both – though fully justified – had worn thin his nerves. "Because the dragons are as much people of Britain as you or I! Not human but British people nonetheless," he snapped. "And with how intelligent they are, they should be respected as people, but until such time as they are able to make a place for themselves and society as a whole accepts them, they should still be able to take pride in themselves and their country, and know that through their lives and deeds they may make their nation safe, and proud. Why should they _not_ take pride in where they come from, in _their people_, their accomplishments? Britain may not be China, but I'll be damned if I call myself anything but an Englishman – was it too much for me to hope that Temeraire could someday share that pride?"

The expression on the man's face changed, the corners of his thin mouth curling up, baring a glint of teeth – _I cannot say if that looks more threatening or amused –_ and the deep rumble of his laugh sounded more draconic than human, much like he had seemed back at the clearing near Temeraire's, and Laurence thought for a moment that he could see a black shadow darken Kirkland's exposed skin. "Your staunch defence of your companion and his kind are admirable, but your character shines through other words. 'Damned if you'd call yourself anything but an Englishman'? My _my_, Captain Laurence; for a man convicted of treason, you certainly are patriotic." He looked up, eyes locking with the aviator's, and nothing in Laurence's power could have broken that link. "Your country is lucky to call you its own."

Something unidentifiable flashed, _snapped_, near-tangible power crackling through the room like the ozone of an oncoming storm. A vision - a _memory_ swept through Laurence's mind, as real as if he was experiencing it again: himself as a young boy, just entering into the Navy's service, walking down through the docks surrounded on all sides by ships-of-the-line, war-vessels, and the all-encompassing awe and wonder at the strength, power, and beauty of these, the ships, cornerstone of an Empire – and in but a moment the vision was gone but the feeling remained, yet somehow older, more weary, but no less potent, centred entirely on Arthur Kirkland, and Laurence could feel whispered words coming from him, even though he had not consciously given them voice.

"What _are_ you?"

Kirkland's gaze bored into his own, and Laurence felt the world drop away from under his feet.

All anger having fled him, he stood in shock, staring. The aviator's mouth went dry – drier than any stretch of desert he, Temeraire, and the crew had crossed on their way back from China; the moisture all but fled him and his tongue felt stiff, unable to speak as he stared at the man in front of him. _Sir Arthur Kirkland_. _Arthur._ The light filtering in through the infirmary window threw a light relief on the bandages wrapped liberally about his sturdy frame, covering the recent injuries – _though probably not his worst, as amazing as that thought may seem_, Laurence surmised, having seen before the vast scarring strewn across the other man's body, some that by all means looked to have been fatal.

"Are you the king of legend, sir, come back from Avalon to aid Britain in our darkest hour?"

Arthur (King?) chuckled with a wry, lopsided twist to his lips, gazing down at his hands, folded in his lap. Laurence could see the skin of his palms and a detached part of his mind recognised the old calluses that could only have come from long, hard years on a ship at sea. Still looking down at his hands, the man replied simply "And if I was?"

Laurence swallowed through the dryness. "I am not a superstitious man, but there is something about you that I simply cannot grasp. King Arthur you may be, but I have a feeling that there is more to this situation than the possibility of old legends manifesting in reality."

"It is good for you then that I am not _King_ Arthur, but merely share the name. Beyond that…" His hands spread as if in supplication, gaze now raised to meet Laurence's own, "what is it about me that you cannot understand? What is it you see, William Laurence, that leaves you so _unnerved_?"

Words sprung unbidden to the aviator's tongue, nearly escaping before he could call them back as he gazed down at this man who was somehow more than a man. _In your eyes I can see the hills around Wollaton Hall, the mountains surrounding Loch Laggan. Your blood is your people's; its pathways, rivers. In your right arm I see the law, in your left the church. In your hands are the army, the navy, the corps, all the land's labourers. Your bones are mountains and architecture, from the lowliest pebble and pig farm to the grandest cathedrals and snowy peaks. Your skin is history's parchment, marked with every deed true and foul – the passage of time beyond the scope of mere mortals._

"I…" he faltered, eyes wide, nearly poleaxed by the revelation, the sudden understanding of what exactly this... _creature_... was. "…you – you are _Britain_."

Blond hair shifted as the impossibility before him tilted its head – _was it the Anglo-Saxons that made you so, or were you always meant to be crowned in gold?_ "An interesting theory, to say the least." Bandages and scars moved as muscle tensed and released. "Though how would one go about being an entire country? It seems quite unlikely that such a thing would be possible."

Laurence's brow furrowed. "Impossible though it may be, I feel no need to change my conclusion, sir. It is not, perhaps, a _rational_ conclusion, but though I like to think myself a man of reason, this falls more towards the realm of faith. I choose to _believe_ in what you are, in what all of my soul is telling me."

A tight smile, challenging. "And here I thought that a man such as yourself would demand evidence, rather than functioning on faith alone for such a claim."

"I believe in the truth of God, for which there is no proof." Laurence felt his resolve rising with each passing moment. "How is this much different, that my beloved country could stand before me in the shape of a man?"

"Because there is proof to be had, for my kind. A Nation is not a god, and so may fall prey to mortal ill and injury - just not succumb to it."

Arthur's hand rose to his chest, and Laurence started forward, afraid that some injury had reopened. However, the other man waved him away, beginning to unwrap the bandaging from around his body. The captain's eyes widened as linen strips fell away to reveal healthy skin, save for some small cuts that remained constantly seeping – nowhere was there evidence of the deep gashes and punctures that Laurence had seen before, save for his shoulder, which now appeared only slightly mangled.

Arthur (_Britain_) affixed the bandages back to his still-open wounds with a smooth, practiced efficiency. "Despite his invasion, the Corsican has not done much harm to the land and cities." He glanced up at Laurence. "Such are the wounds that remain. They will close within a few months, possibly a year or so."

_Wounds to the mortal body – gone and healed quickly. Wounds upon the land… _Laurence looked him over again, seeing the scarring that littered his frame and refrained from asking further. "You were bleeding quite heavily when we brought you in to the doctors. Why did you not come here at first?"

"Invasion, occupation, war - these take a toll on the body, as does simple exhaustion. Had France not taken as much control as he did, they would have closed sooner. Normally, even terrible wounds can heal in a span of ten minutes to almost immediately." He finished securing the last of the off-white wraps. "Though I was not lying about wasting medical supplies on me, I will admit that it was not foremost in my reasoning. Appearances must be kept and I cannot afford to reveal myself to the general populace. You must admit, two captain-less dragons with a single injured man would have caused quite the stir in the middle of camp, much less an injured man that should by all accounts be dead from severe mauling and blood loss." A baleful stare fixed itself upon Laurence. "Not that such a scene was avoided _anyway_..."

The aviator winced. "I-I apologise, sir. I can only hope to claim ignora..."

"Oh, do hush. Had I been human, your actions would possibly have saved my life. As it stands, I must deal with a minor inconvenience, and some irritating rumours - nothing that hasn't happened before." He waved Laurence away and stood from the bed to slip into a clean, folded undershirt and waistcoat, fiddling with the plain silver buttons. A beryl glance flicked to the doorway. "And tell the boys to come in. They have been waiting quite a while."

The aviator blinked, surprised, and moved to open the door. As soon as it creaked inward, a mass of brown barrelled in through the entry. The captain caught a glimpse of dark, wild hair over eyebrows as thick as Britain's own before he was shoved aside by an adolescent boy who could hardly have been older than twelve or thirteen.

"Father!"

Laurence gaped.

In a flurry of gangly limbs, the boy had thrown himself into Arthur's arms, chattering loudly. "They said you'd be all right, an' o' course ya are, but they said you needed rest an' quiet an' they wouldn' let us in! Ah told 'em that you'd want us 'ere with you and they said that it wasn' th' place of a lad like meself to be goin' aroun' expectin' 'em to let me all 'round wherever I pleased an' _ooooh_ but if'n I could only get my 'ands on one o' them..." He seemed to suddenly remember Laurence standing over near the doorway, and spun to face the aviator, who almost recoiled at the scowl on the lad's face. His eyes were narrowed and the impressive brows furrowed; he pointed at Laurence with an accusing finger, damning as the spearhead of Areadbhar. "An' _you_! Bloody tosser, this's all _your _fault, an' your dragon's, snatchin' 'im up and away from us like that..."

"Cody," the sharp reprimand came, "_manners_, boy. Mind your tongue. Do I need to sit you down for lessons again?"

Chastised, the boy relented. "Sorry, Father."

Arthur turned to Laurence, who was highly confused, first at the boy's manner of address for his Country, and then for the words he spoke. _Snatching him up and away from us? _Before he could ask the new questions that tripped to the fore of his tongue, Arthur nodded to him - no, beside him, to where another boy stood, though this one was closer to being a young man.

Light-skinned and blond-haired where the other was tanned and brown-haired, he appeared to be in his mid-teens and was an inch or two taller than Laurence himself, and by extension Britain. He was dressed as a simple army man - sans hat - but had a blue naval coat, decorated much like a serving-admiral's, draped over his arm. Laurence was startled to see the boy there, as he had neither heard nor seen his approach, had not even known that another stood beside him. There was something odd about him, as there was with the first, but Laurence could not place it.

"Matthew." Arthur's voice was aloof, but with a hint of warmth that bespoke of tender regard.

"Arthur-" the young one's voice did not keep the same stoic reservation, and held the same respect and familial love that the other boy's did when he cried _Father_, "-are you well mended? The physicians would not tell us much, and even then..." Blue-violet eyes flicked sideways to Laurence, who was struck for a moment with déjà vu, wondering where he had seen them before. Arthur's lips pulled into a thin line that quirked upward at the edges knowingly.

"It seems I have the opportunity to answer two unasked questions at once. Yes, Captain, these are my sons - no flesh of mine but _my sons_ nonetheless." He clapped a hand down upon the shoulder of the younger lad. "Australia." A fond nod to the boy beside Laurence. "Canada."

And suddenly Laurence knew what that odd feeling was that he was receiving from the two. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. A tension that Laurence had not noticed drained from Matthew's - _Canada's_ - shoulders, and he wondered how major an issue it was for these beings to tell mere mortals like himself what they actually were. Did they tell their kings, their leaders? Apparently they fought in battles and wars - so, did they tell their generals? How difficult must it be for them to put on a human façade around all the people that they met, only to express themselves freely in the private company of their own kind? Australia - _dear Lord, I have incurred the wrath of the manifestation of an entire colony_ - still stared at him and fumed though, shifting from foot to foot like he wanted nothing more than to leap at Laurence and strangle him for stealing away his master - his _father_.

"Well, Captain Laurence." Canada said coolly. "It seems you are a privileged man..."

But Britain shook his head. "A perceptive one, Canada. It has been known to happen," he spared Laurence a critical glance, "though not often. True to your country beyond what many shall ever be, you are. Even so, not all would put the proper name to what they felt." Looking at the lone mortal in the room with a glimmer of new understanding, Canada nodded deferentially. Britain nudged Australia, who moved begrudgingly to the side, and reached for the naval coat that Canada offered to him.

Even before he put on the coat his demeanour returned to the man that the aviator had first seen in the clearing, wounded but holding himself straight and prideful. The Nation's face hardened and gone was the paternal regard with which he beheld his Colony-sons, even Laurence himself to a degree - _for we are all children of our Nation, are we not?_ - and the coat snapped shut with the ease of long practice. It was an arrogant, regal gaze that swept over them all, his posture its equal. Those eyes landed on Laurence once more, and again he felt that sense of overwhelming _presence_, his mind overcome with memories and sensations of every bit of his country that he had ever known, from southern beaches to northern reaches. A brief thought of the calluses that he had seen on Britain's palms flashed through in but a moment - _even at sea, you ever have been with me_ - and was gone.

"I do believe I shall be seeing you again, Captain William Laurence," his Nation said as he swept past. "Though if I do not, make me proud, will you?" And then he was gone. In a second, the Colonies of Canada and Australia followed, leaving a stunned Laurence in their wake.

.o.O.o.

"_Laurence, I will do you credit; I have never in my life met any man more desirable to hang, and less convenient._" – Wellesley/Wellington, _Victory of Eagles_

.o.O.o.

End Notes:

Doctor Harper came out of _nowhere_. I don't know a whole lot about him other than that he knows about the Nations – Britain and some of the colonies at least - because sometime in his stint as a field medic, back when he was just a young'un, he was scurrying about, doing his job, trying to keep men alive, when suddenly he's got Arthur with bullet wounds and the man is _healing right before his eyes_. And then he was stubborn enough to find Britain and keep pestering him until he got the truth.

They did not have anaesthetics during the Napoléonic Wars. They barely had what we would recognise as surgery during said time period - mostly it was still cauterization and amputation. I almost made a blunder and assumed there was anaesthesia, then the random thought that I should probably look that up hit me, and I'm glad it did. Instead I figured they'd just give a man a healthy swig of something with a high alcohol content to dull the pain and used that instead. Safe bet, I think.

On names – Laurence notes in _His Majesty's Dragon_ that most of the British Aerial Corps dragons have Latin names like Maximus, Volatilus, Celeritas, Excidium, and Caesar, to name but a few. There are a few exceptions, like Lily (I'm not going into Iskierka right now; she's in a class of her own in just about everything _anyway_), but not often. So, for Australia and Canada, I'm giving them Latin and Old English names, respectively. 'Pyropus' is Latin for 'bronze', referring to Australia's colouring; 'Hriðhige' is bastardized, internet-researched Old English for 'snow-heart' - if anyone knows anything better on the subject, please forgive and correct me.

Areadbhar is a living, poisoned spear from Irish mythology, and did not need to be physically wielded to wound – it was naturally bloodthirsty and the spearhead was generally tipped in some sort of sleeping potion to keep it from going on a rampage.


End file.
